Lost Boys
by Olympic Chill
Summary: Carlisle reviews the events that led up Edward's rebellion in 1927. Slash. Pre-Twilight, AU.


_"For he himself is our peace, who has made the two one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility, by abolishing in his flesh the law with its commandments and regulations. His purpose was to create in himself one new man out of the two, thus making peace..."_

_Ephesians 2:14-15_

CPOV

When it comes to lost sheep, you leave the ninety-nine in the flock to find the one missing. If it were a misplaced coin, you would turn the house upside-down to recover it. But when the loss is a boy ... you must wait.

I understand the logic of the gospel story fine. You cannot carry the lad home and expect him to stay. He must return of his own volition. And yet ... I replay the scenes that led to his going daily, for these past four years, and it has taken me that long to realize my error.

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><p>Lake Superior, 1927<p>

I had worthily fought the urge to drag the boy down the walkway by his ear. Instead... "Follow me," I whispered severely, knowing that he would.

As it was always with Edward, I sensed he was looking for cause to leave me. If this were going to be it, then God bless it, I would let him go! Like the other young men of his generation, Edward was world-weary. He was looking for cause to rebel ... but perhaps not as much as he was waiting for reason to stay. I told myself that I would set forth for him both reasons and let the devil take the hindmost.

Having sent Esme home to pull herself together, I stalked down lamp-lit streets with Edward trailing, eventually diverting in between buildings for distance from the sparse public. Either the alleys were not private enough or I had not sufficiently recovered myself to confront Edward. Whichever it was, I kept up my stride.

Although I recognized the church as a town landmark, I was not familiar with its interior. All the same, I knew it would be unlocked and vacated this time of night. The door I entered opened to a shelved storeroom where the wine for the sacrament was kept. Not knowing where I was going, but going madly all the same, I sped up staircases and down passageways and we eventually ended up in the sacristy.

There was a center table with cupboards and drawers for storing the linens and vestments. A chasuble and stole were laid out on top for the priest. On another table, the Eucharistic elements and chalice rested, ready for consecration.

Satisfied with our terminus, I spun on my heel and dealt the dressing-down Edward had no doubt heard in my head on the journey there. He endured it patiently, and when I was finished, he proceeded to defend himself—very dry, very polite—in that maddening way he had of casually dismissing all the breath I had just wasted.

"She's not smart, Carlisle."

"She's smart enough to know when you're mocking her."

"All right, so she's not stupid. She's uneducated ... if that's better. I quoted Alexander Pope yesterday, and she asked what it was. When I answered Pope, she thought I meant the Bishop of Rome. I honestly don't know what an enlightened man such as yourself is doing with her. But perhaps you can get her a tutor." He laughed through his nose.

Poor, dear Esme. She couldn't even get away with pretending to know what Edward was talking about.

"I fail to see what is so amusing. In fact, I find your lack of empathy incredible, especially for a mind reader! Esme adores you, Edward. You know this. She listens to your compositions with unconcealed rapture and waits with bated breath for any affection you might throw her way. And yet, you flagrantly humiliated her. How can you be so cruel? I refuse to believe that you were raised in a home in which such disrespect for women was tolerated. What would your father have done had you behaved that way under his supervision?"

"Oh, for crying out loud. You know very well what my father would have done. I don't appreciate rhetorical questions. You and I are beyond that. Now, this may _sound_ rhetorical, but I really need to know: do you want to be my father, Carlisle? Because I thought what we had was better. But tell me. Do you? Want to be my father? Make Esme my mother?"

I sighed, disappointed but not overly surprised by his cynicism. "This is a situation that suits us, and she's adjusted fair enough to her new life. You decide. Make her whatever you want. Your mother, your sister, your cousin—" I cut myself off before I let "your lover" slip past my lips. Judging by the smirk on Edward's face, he had detected my unspoken thought anyway. He shook his head.

"No, thank you," he muttered.

I could see the point. If we were going to do this, we would need to find Edward a female, as well.

"That's not the point! I don't want a woman, Carlisle! I want it to go back to the way it was—you and me. And you didn't answer my question. Do you want to be Pa-pa, Carlisle? I've already heard your lecture. You want me to bend over for you?"

Before I could respond, he had stripped completely and lay prone on the table surface, on top of the priestly vestments. It must have been a remnant of my growing up in a parish, because something self-righteous inside of me reacted negatively to Edward's nudity in this sacred place and his blatant contempt for the liturgical cloth.

But then I paused to behold his naked form and my criticism was disarmed. I remembered who I was—"an enlightened man," as Edward had said. The boy's beauty haunted me. He was an angel with a devil-may-care attitude.

There must have been a part of me that would have reveled in striking Edward. Any other sire would have beaten him repeatedly. There had been moments in which I wanted to counter his frequent tantrums with my own spectacular show of temper that would stop him in his tracks. Certainly a thrashing would have accomplished that. But it was not in my nature, and Esme would have never forgiven me—no matter how deeply he had hurt her feelings this time. Surely Edward understood all that.

Why then had he removed his clothing? Was this an act of submission? Having known Edward nearly a decade, I could surmise that this was a test—but the purpose of the test was what? What did he want from me? What did I want from him?

I wanted Edward. That was all I knew.

I glided my hand over his thigh and buttock. He truly was exquisite. Bewitching even.

Naked. Vulnerable. Waiting.

"That's enough of this now," I whispered hoarsely.

* * *

><p>I had walked out on him that night and run home to see about Esme. In the early morning, before daybreak, Edward returned to me—clothed—and he told me he was leaving. He said he realized that he couldn't stay at home and live the way he wanted. He craved certain physical indulgences that I wouldn't permit.<p>

I listened and nodded miserably, because I was unable to take in enough air to speak. I tried to summon up some generous and wise thoughts for the boy to take away—arguments about why he should stay—but it all amounted to _don't go_. There would be no talking him out of it. I had prepared myself in advance for this outcome, but all the same, the farewell was tragic.

After he left, my inner soliloquy consisted of two different words, fused in such a way that I couldn't determine where the thought began or ended or what it meant: _come back come back come back come back... _It was my cry of pain.

During Edward's absence, my life with Esme since has been tolerable but strained. We take solace in each other's company, but we both feel the dismal hollow in the space where the lad once occupied. I cannot speak for Esme, but losing him was worse than the agony of my immortality. That pain lasted a mere three days, and I eventually adjusted to my new identity. But this... When another day dawns and I've still received no contact from Edward, I die. And in between the dying is a hell filled with pining and regret.

I have watched for Edward daily. Esme stops me from following after him. "He will come home," she consoles, and I remember the parables of the lost in the Gospel of Luke. We go through the motions. She holds my face to her breast and strokes my cheek. My plea is changed yet again—expanded. _Take me with you, _I beg him silently.

Is it Edward who is lost ... or is it me? Who is going to look under the furniture to find me? Or brave the wilderness to save me? Who will run down the road to meet me, resigned and despondent? Who will battle the grave to bring me back alive?

Esme is my spouse. We established that destiny ten years ago. But—my mate? I think not.

If I hadn't known it before, I can say now with certainty that Edward is meant for that role. Perhaps he is more. Edward is my _match_.

He is focused where I am distracted. I am consistent when he is mercurial. I defend my holy, benevolent deity, and he is quick to remind me of his preoccupied or vengeful God—the nature of which changes with the circumstances (that is, when God exists, which for Edward, is not always). Edward is fashionable whereas I am plain. (I imagine had I not insisted he adapt to my doctor's life, he would have pretended to be as human as possible on his own.) And Edward taught this lonely pacifist that the occasional good-natured tussle on the floor relieves tension and boredom and ultimately results in renewed affection.

It is in our differences that we make the perfect pair.

But without my match, I am dismembered.

Lost.

I have memorized the sight of him lying facedown in the sacristy, offering his body to me ... in what way, I had not been certain. He likely had not understood what he was doing. But now, with the time the loss has afforded, I think I have learned.

If I could go back to that moment, I would take him—make him mine. Yes, there in the church. Dash the holy sanctum! That was how it was done in Volterra centuries ago. It was considered the civilized way to create an eternal attachment; it secured the bond, as in an oath. That rite alone would protect Edward from Aro's acquisition.

"Please, God, don't let him go to Italy," I pray for the thousandth time.

But it was more than a ritual.

I had been confused then about what Edward had wanted. Now I know. It is instinctual—a forbidden desire that we hadn't allowed ourselves to entertain. This is altogether my fault. I had judged the practice to be vulgar. I thought I was doing what was right. Although I had kept the boy by my side, I had enabled him to remain lost at home. He was unable to fathom who he was in relation to me. Bringing Esme into our family had perpetuated and heightened that confusion. It was no wonder he had rebelled.

What _had_ I hoped for when I changed Esme? A mother for Edward, certainly. But had I ever wanted to be Edward's father? No. That was the myth I had allowed Edward to believe.

If he were to come back now, I would tell him the truth. He would accept, and I would make him my own.

Can that be—?

A flash of bronze.

Edward!

Lost and then found.

I can hardly form any rational conclusions. As soon as I made my resolution, he returns! He must have heard. How long has he hovered within the boundaries of my mental reaches?

"A while." He spoke to the wall.

_You bloody infuriating boy!_

I am grinning. He smells like petrol and pond water. His coat is missing its buttons and it is too big in the shoulders. A boy in need of a mother. Peter Pan who fell out of his pram and has returned from the Neverland.

The telling burgundy in his eyes gives him away. I don't care. It will fade to black within a few days.

"Then you'll take me back?" he asks, looking at the rug.

"Of course!"

I am beyond myself with euphoria. It's Edward's dejectedness that keeps me from crushing him in my embrace. I don't know what to say. _Speak to me._

"I'll be your son—yours and Esme's—if that's what you want. I want to be with you. I—I want to be like you."

I think.

_Tell him._

"Esme will want to be your mother. She always was, and nothing has changed. As for you and me... I want you, Edward." I swallow.

"Will you punish me now?"

_Oh, blast it. I didn't mean to—_

Without realizing it, I have reverted to the old habit of obscuring my thoughts. I must be open if he's to understand.

_No. No. I want to—I want to ... make love to you._

He is keeping eye contact for the first time, frightened and—I daresay—hopeful. He nods.

"Will you ... undress for me?" I request.

"Only if you do the same," he counters with humor.

I grin and nod. I slip my arms through my leather braces and let the loops hang down by my thighs.

He proceeds to strip, without hesitation, but he is unhurried. This is not the shocking exhibition of four years ago. It is ... seductive. He looks me in the eye as he performs.

Edward shrugs off his coat and unbuttons his shirt, as I follow suit and shed my undershirt as well. Then he steps on his heel, each in turn, and kicks the shoes away. His trousers come undone and drop to the floor. He is not wearing socks or shorts. I have forgotten my undressing because I am watching him.

"Come to me," I beckon, moving to the couch. He climbs into my lap to sit and clutches his knees to his chest.

I rub his body, his forearm and bicep, his calf. I knead his ankles. Then I grab the back of his neck and push him down and forward until he catches his upper body with his forearms. He is snarling softly. Without releasing his neck, I lean my mouth to the skin behind his ear. The growling grows louder.

"Stop that," I command.

It diminishes not fully but alters to an eager purr. Shifting onto my knees between his legs, I come behind. My lips move to the base of his throat where I feel the delicate rumble. Suddenly Edward turns his head and his lips meet mine. The kiss is open—volatile and tender in the way only Edward can be both at once. While we make love, I use my hand to prepare his body for my entrance. With my mouth, I kiss and bite and lick Edward's lips, chin, and jaw.

Coming up, I use one hand to grasp the boy's shoulder. With the other I unbutton my trousers and yank them from my legs. As my naked skin makes contact with the backs of his thighs, the purr turns to a thick moan, and I make the motion of intimate love with my hips.

"Please, Carlisle!"

I reach around his waist and stroke the length of his erection. Then I grab a pillow from behind me and thrust it under his hips. I guide myself to enter him.

We are joined. Two and one. Broken and whole. Blessed. It is in my destruction that I am made new.

We lie on the couch, face to face. Edward is in my arms and his fingers play in the hair by my ear. I think this is quite easily the best day of my three hundred years. How pleased darling Esme will be to have Edward back.

"You know, you could use a mother, too, Carlisle," Edward says, fighting a smile. I notice the irony that Edward is fixed in his boyhood during this age in which youth is a forgotten, yet nostalgic ideal. It makes me love him more.

"True," I answer. "We are two motherless monsters."

"But we have our Wendy." He is biting his tongue.

"We have a Wendy," I agree. "And she loves us unconditionally. But she's still not smart."

Edward snorts. I laugh.

"No?" he asks, one eyebrow cocked. "And we're not brothers ..." he starts.

"No, we're not that."

He lights me up with his crooked smile. "Because I'm yours."

I have endured endless epochs and kingdoms to hear this pledge. After the trauma of losing him and the celebration of finding him, the ordeal makes me over again. Ruined and restored at the same juncture.

_Yes, Edward. Because you are mine, I am found._

THE END

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><p>For sisterglitch, an intelligent and unselfish Wendy...<p> 


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